Go in, he says; he’s lit the kitchen fire;
Outside there’s work to finish. So I find
My kitchen. I lived here, I lived with him.
The shelves are black with fire-dust, the steel sink
Dull and brown-stained. Now why am I compelled,
While he’s outside, to scrub and clean and shine?
Is it a gift I wish to make? Possess
His territory? Disinfect our lives?
What am I trying to show, that my chained tongue
Does not dare say? He comes in, chilled;
Wordlessly observes the kitchen cleaned.
Washes cold hands; the towel’s dirty grey.

His tea, of Japanese simplicity,
Honours the ancient kettle and worn mug.
Steady, unhurried movements. Here is warmth.
Under the silences our two hearts beat.
He seeks my eyes,
His body curving with the grace of youth.
A smiling question, dancing-poised,
Breathless, still.

Questions all answered. All chains loosed. Fire
On the hearth’s ash. I walk into his arms;
We join to scour off rust with our bare hands.